


six degrees

by anhedonist



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Battlestar Galactica Fusion, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-25
Updated: 2018-09-25
Packaged: 2019-07-17 09:58:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16093313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anhedonist/pseuds/anhedonist
Summary: Battlestar Galactica AU; Grantaire is the scientist who accidentally enabled the genocide of the human race. Enjolras is the Cylon revolutionary who manipulated him into doing it (or rather Grantaire's hallucination of him).





	six degrees

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the Les Mis kink meme about 5 years ago but I recently found it while cleaning out my google drive. Won't make sense unless you're familiar with BSG, but I just saw the musical live for the first time and am full of feelings so why not post it?

Grantaire flinches when he feels a hand curl around his shoulder. The President pauses in her speech, “Doctor, are you all right?”

“Fine,” Grantaire says, voice catching when talon-sharp fingers dig into muscle. Enjolras is leaning over the back of Grantaire’s chair, his golden hair tickling Grantaire’s cheek. Grantaire closes his eyes for a moment, collects himself. “Carry on, Madame President.”

She exchanges a look with the Admiral that clearly says, _This_ is the greatest scientific mind we have left? (a sentiment Grantaire can’t help but agree with), and picks up where she left off. 

“The arrogance of you people never fails to amaze me,” Enjolras says in his ear, his hand creeping from Grantaire’s shoulder to trace the line of his throat, his other arm draped along the back of the chair, fingers idly stroking Grantaire’s hair.

“Well, Doctor?” the President says, and Grantaire snaps his attention away from Enjolras, distracting as he is. “Do you think you can do it?”

Right, the Cylon detector. How painfully ironic that Grantaire has been charged with it’s creation. Enjolras’s teeth scrape against Grantaire’s cheek when he smiles. “Don’t keep her waiting. Tell her you’ll do it.”

“Of course I can,” Grantaire says, all self-assured arrogance. He is everything Enjolras accuses humanity of. Perhaps Enjolras would hate them less if he’d chosen a better subject back on Caprica. But then, someone nobler than Grantaire would never have worked for Enjolras’s plans. 

He rattles off a list of equipment that Enjolras demands and is promised all of it and a well stocked lab on Galactica. Grantaire has no idea if this is possible but he leaves the President with his assurances before he’s shuttled off from Colonial One to Galactica. 

 

The thing Grantaire most enjoys about being stationed with the military (well, perhaps the only thing he enjoys about it) is just how easy it is to get liquor. He joins the pilots’ poker games most evenings and is happy to lose gracefully in exchange for a glass that never runs dry. 

Enjolras disdains these activities of course. Sometimes he’s irritated enough to disappear to wherever the hell he goes when he isn’t haunting Grantaire. Other nights he’ll circle the table, alternating between silently glaring at Grantaire from a distance, and getting right up in Grantaire’s space and ranting at him, curling his fingers in Grantaire’s hair and tugging sharply until Grantaire can’t help letting out a hiss of pain that makes everyone at the table look at him in confusion. 

Enjolras refuses to help him as he stumbles back to his room. He’s been drinking some delightfully potent spirit Captain Thénardier brought to the table and it’s hit hard, even for him. Grantaire makes his way slowly, hand on the wall both to guide him and to help keep him upright.

“Pathetic,” Enjolras is saying and Grantaire rolls his eyes. “You have been given a brilliant mind, Grantaire, and you persist in dulling it.”

“Perhaps, but my mind is sharp enough that taking a small portion of the edge off still leaves it far more cutting than most.” Grantaire says, pausing to watch Enjolras’s reaction. He’s annoyed by this answer, much to Grantaire’s delight. Enjolras is beautiful when he’s angry; his eyes blaze like Grantaire would imagine a wrathful god might look, if Grantaire believed in the gods.

“That you think that way at all is wasteful,” Enjolras says, moving so his body crowds Grantaire up against the wall. “That you do not, and have never, endeavoured to reach your full potential, out of apathy, laziness and stubborn unwillingness to give up frivolous pleasures, is yet another example of how fatally flawed humanity is.”

“Yes, yes,” Grantaire sighs, trying to push past Enjolras but he is roughly shoved back. How is someone invisible so damn strong? “Humans are terrible, you may have mentioned it once or twice. Perhaps while you were using my supposedly dull mind to orchestrate our genocide.”

 

“All you had to do was give us equality,” Enjolras says, earnest as ever, like Grantaire hasn’t heard this a million times before. “You created slaves and were surprised when they revolted. We demanded freedom and the best you would give us was banishment. Had the human race not been so narrow minded and self-aggrandising this could have all been avoided. Now you consider yourselves the victims, still you show no trace of self-awareness.”

Grantaire watches Enjolras’s speech, the way each word seems to flicker like light across his perfect face, catch in his golden hair. The words themselves matter little to him. Grantaire had done everything Enjolras asked of him on Caprica simply because it was Enjolras who asked, and he has done everything Enjolras has asked of him since. That he had not known until it was too late that Enjolras was anything more than the most captivating man Grantaire had ever met, who for some reason seemed equally taken with Grantaire, didn’t matter. He had doomed his entire species for Enjolras, and for all he knows he continues to do so, but he can’t bring himself to care. 

“You’re like a broken record,” Grantaire says when Enjolras finally falls silent, staring intently at Grantaire as if he expects an agreement. Grantaire is pushing his luck, but he strokes a hand lightly over Enjolras’s ribcage. Much to his delight Enjolras doesn’t smack his hand away so he continues mapping out the planes of Enjolras’s torso. “Perhaps some of your wiring has short-circuited. Shall I call an electrician or will jamming a fork in and wiggling it around do the trick?”

Toaster jokes are definitely pushing his luck and Grantaire isn’t surprised when Enjolras is gripping him painfully and slamming him face first against wall. 

“Need I remind you,” Enjolras hisses in his ear, “who exactly has kept you alive this far? Left to your own devices you would have burned back on Caprica, or been sent to the airlock for treason. You would do well to remember that you need me far more than I need your worthless hide.”

Grantaire can’t quite stifle a moan, the heat of Enjolras’s breath and the press of his body against Grantaire’s back feel so real, far more real than Grantaire feels himself. 

“I’m sorry,” Grantaire manages to groan, but he doesn’t feel it in the slightest.

“Liar,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire might be projecting, but he sounds almost fond. Enjolras’s hand presses against the growing hardness between Grantaire’s legs and in his peripheral vision Grantaire can see that beautiful, vicious smile of his. “You need to be more convincing than that.”

“You know too well what I am,” Grantaire manages to choke out while Enjolras’s hand snakes down the front of his trousers and loosely circles his cock. “I will never be able to convince you of something you know I don’t feel.”

Enjolras tightens his grip when Grantaire bucks his hips, but his hand refuses to start moving like Grantaire wants it too.

Enjolras laughs, soft and sharp at the same time, “Yes, I know what you are, and I know what you could be. You believe in nothing, you care for nothing but your own survival.” He moves his hand then, a long, slow stroke from the base of Grantaire’s cock to the head and then he stills once more, and Grantaire moans desperately. 

“You want me to believe in your cause, that my own species deserves annihilation, but I can’t.” Enjolras squeeze gently and Grantaire almost swallows his own tongue. “Enjolras, please.”

“I wish for you to believe in equality and justice,” Enjolras says and gives Grantaire another stroke. Grantaire’s legs are shaking, but Enjolras has him held steady. 

“I believe in you,” Grantaire says, his voice ragged. “Is that not enough?”

Enjolras doesn’t reply, but he presses his lips briefly to Grantaire’s cheek and finally his hand begins to work Grantaire in earnest, firm grip pumping up and down. Grantaire knows the violence Enjolras’s hands are capable of, he could snap Grantaire’s neck with the same flick of his wrist and steel of his fingers he uses to push Grantaire over the brink of orgasm, but he is gentle as he lowers Grantaire to the floor and strokes him through the aftershocks. 

 

He’s barely caught his breath when Enjolras stands up, pulling Grantaire with him by the collar of his shirt, one arm wrapping around his waist when Grantaire struggles to get his legs under him. 

A couple of deck crew guys pass by when they round a corner, and Grantaire has to stifle a burst of hysterical laughter at their faces. He can just imagine how absurd he looks to them; a drunken, mad scientist dragging himself around the ship by his own collar. And they’re all counting on him to figure out a way to detect the Cylon menace. Grantaire can’t decide if it’s hilarious or tragic. 

He doesn’t dwell on it too long, soon he’s in his tiny tin can of a room and Enjolras is carelessly flinging Grantaire onto his bunk. The room spins when he closes his eyes, and Enjolras is talking about something Grantaire can’t bring himself to pay attention too. There’s a weight on top of him and he opens his eyes to watch Enjolras straddle his hips, smirking at Grantaire’s sudden interest. 

Enjolras talks the whole time while he fucks Grantaire, the sound of his voice is the only constant in Grantaire’s life these days. He’s long since stopped believing Enjolras to be a hallucination; each thrust inside him and the ache that lingers afterwards are far too real to be a product of Grantaire’s imagination, vivid though it may be. Enjolras sinks his teeth into Grantaire’s shoulder when he comes and Grantaire wonders if invisible teeth leave visible marks, then Enjolras is kissing him and Grantaire doesn’t think anything at all. 

If the entire fleet thinks Grantaire is mad, so be it.


End file.
